Radio
by Brokie
Summary: Rentfic. Mark hasn't seen Roger for 3 years, but he still loves him. MR! FINALLY UPDATED!
1. Alone

Disclaimer: They aren't mine ****

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. The characters belong to Jonathan Larson. Please don't sue me. All you'll get is a CD you won't like and a pair of shoes that probably won't fit you anyway.

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Author's Note: This is the first fic I've posted here, so please review, I'd really appreciate it.

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Radio

I sit here looking for inspiration but finding none. All I can think about is the music in my ears, the gentle pulse, his soft voice, the chords echoing faintly. The words have gained a meaning they've never had before. Fighting the thoughts and memories is futile, as always. I always try to hold it back, hold it in, but hearing his voice just smashes through the walls and barriers straight to the empty space inside me.

Sometimes I wonder why I listen. I always end up crying and sobbing alone on the kitchen floor and dying inside all over again. Like it's the first hour, the first second and he's left all over again. Through my tears I make useless attempts at convincing myself that he's going to come back. Deep inside I know he's gone forever.

There are so many unanswered questions. I wrote him a letter once, said everything I could think of to say; I poured my heart out on paper and told him things I'd never let myself even think before. But I'm who I am, and I didn't send it. It's still tucked inside an unsealed envelope in my top drawer. Sometimes I get it out and read it and wonder if things would be different if I wasn't too big of a coward to send it. Would he have gotten it? Would he have written back, been angry, regretful, relieved?

Would he have come home?

I don't know. Don't know much of anything anymore. All I know is I miss him and I need him and he's not coming home. I've accepted these things. What I can't accept is that he doesn't love me, not even just as a friend. I cannot accept the fact that he has called or written or even e-mailed everyone else in our little fallen-to-pieces family but me. I know it hurts, but doesn't he realize how much he hurts me? Does he just not care anymore?

She's gone, he's gone, I'm alone again and our group of friends has been reduced to fond memories and faded pictures and infrequent phone calls. We knew it was coming, we even let it happen. So why does it hurt so much?

Occasionally I wonder why I bother. I could just end it now and I wouldn't have to hurt anymore. But I know suicide isn't the answer. After all, I am supposed to be "the one of us to survive." So here I am, left behind here inside these familiar walls. Living in an empty shell that used to be alive with love and hope and promises everyone secretly knew they'd never be able to keep.

I always figured I'd be the last one to go. The only one of us who wasn't strong enough to let go. And I was right; everyone else has left this place in one way or another. I'm still here, waiting. For closure, for an absolution? Or maybe just waiting for his song to come on the radio again. Who knows. He's gone, I'm here . . what else really matters?


	2. Empty

Disclaimer: Still aren't mine… ****

Disclaimer: Still aren't mine…

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Author's Note: I figured I had some explaining to do, and so this is for all 2 of the people who asked me to continue. It's taken me awhile to get around to writing this, I've been pretty busy and I couldn't seem to get it started. The first line sort of popped into my head and this is what came out.. review please? I'd like to know if anyone wants me to keep going.

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Radio

Chapter 2

I really hope I don't have to get used to this feeling. I'm empty, really truly empty, for the first time since Angel died. I don't know what I'm doing with myself anymore. It's so.. god, I want to hate him, but I can't. I just want to despise him as much as humanly possible and use that to build up the barrier again, so when his new single comes on the radio I won't have to run and hide or face the tears. But I've learned it's not easy enough to go from love to hate. Falling out of love should be more difficult, I suppose, because it's easier to start loving than it is to let go.

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I don't love Roger, I never did, I never will. I can think it but I know it's not true. I can write it but my hands start shaking so bad you can't even read the last part of the sentence. I try to say it and my voice cracks when I speak his name and I can't finish. He's not here and yet he's still making my life a living hell.. not by what he does, but by what he doesn't do. Still hasn't called. Hasn't written. I hate him for what he does to me, for how easily he makes me feel this insignificant. But then how can I still love him? And what do I love him for?

Everything. I love everything about him, the way he smiles, the way he used to play Musetta's Waltz over and over when he couldn't find his song, the way he argues… The way he gets jealous even though it's never over me, the way he sang to Mimi before she got sick again because if I hid in my room and closed my eyes I could almost pretend he was singing to me… It's pathetic. I'm pathetic, everything about me is, so I really don't know how I can still harbor these delusions that maybe someday he'll realize that I really am worth loving.. or calling. Or writing to.

God dammit, I just want to know that he's okay and if it's not too much to ask I would really like to know why! I think I deserve an explanation. I deserve something, that's for sure. I'm not sure what.. maybe a sign of life? I scare myself sometimes by thinking about what could be going on. He could be sick. Could be dying, and I don't know because no one ever comes around anymore.. there isn't anyone _to_ come around because I'm the only one who can't move on. I want to, I just.. I can't, because I don't want to lose him. It sounds silly, but this place is all I have left of him. Even though it's empty, like me and like the promises and like the mail slot downstairs, and like my bank account because I'm never in the mood to film anymore. I'm falling apart, would anyone like to help me pick up the pieces?

I didn't think so.

He stayed for about a week after Mimi died. A record for him. Funerals always seem to send him packing.. Whenever something bad happens—a fight, a death, bad news from the doctor, whatever—I always end up holding my breath just waiting for him to take off, so it's never a surprise to come home to an empty loft and a note on the kitchen table. Only this time, it wasn't just a quickly scrawled "Dear Mark, went to Santa Fe" on a torn-off corner of the calendar. When I came back from filming in the park and trying to take my mind off of everything, four angry white envelopes were on the table waiting. One for Benny, one for Maureen and Joanne, one for Collins, and one for me.

Mine was short; no explanation, because I didn't need one, no mentions of anything that would make him hate me like I know he must. In fact, the exact opposite; he told me he loved me. Not the love that I want or that I think maybe I might need, just the normal, best friend brotherly love that we have always had. The loving each other part was normal in a way—we'd always been close—but it scared me, because I don't think either of us had ever spoken it out loud before, let alone written it down. He said he was going to Los Angeles, told me not to worry. Like words on a page were supposed to stop me or something..

Whatever happened to missing New York before you could unpack? To coming back to the loft and settling back in without saying a word, never mentioning the screaming match we had before he went running away?

We always fight before he leaves. And then he comes back, and we don't talk about it, and everything's alright again. Only this time he didn't come back, and so I don't know what the rules are. I don't know how it's supposed to work when he's in Los Angeles and I'm here and we can't talk, so we can't pretend that we didn't hurl insults at each other before he got in his car and drove off. I used to think he would come back, and then after that I would imagine he might come back, until I said something to Maureen one day and she yelled at me, told me to get over it and that Roger was gone for good this time. I know that now. But it was nice to pretend.

I don't hate him, I hate myself for what I can't do. It's been almost three years now, and I still can't send the letter. I can't make myself love him any less, and I can't move on.


	3. Scared

I'm moving out of the loft ****

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.

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Author's Note: There's dialogue in this chapter! Yay me!

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Radio

Chapter 3

I'm moving out of the loft. Right now I'm sitting here on the floor amidst all these boxes just wondering where I got the courage to start letting go. I guess maybe I've realized that moving on doesn't mean I love him any less. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I get completely disgusted with myself because I think about him too much and I'm so hopelessly in love with this person I'll probably never see again.. and of course it still hurts when I think about it. But I think part of the reason I couldn't stop loving him was that I didn't want to. No matter what he does or doesn't do, he's still Roger. And I love him for that. Sometimes thinking back makes me want to hate him and sometimes I do hate him, but the love's still there, which I don't really understand but have come to accept.

God, three and a half years.. why is it that when you're with someone it's so easy to fall out of love, but it's so much harder to let go of them when they die or leave or have just drifted away and aren't really there anymore? 

Roger left, but yet he's still here. Hurting me. There are pieces of him everywhere. From the coffee stain I rediscovered beneath the rug in the living room to the worn guitar pick wedged between the ratty couch and the wall, there is evidence of Roger's existence everywhere.. but it's old, it's faded, and I don't want to see it because it only reminds me that he's gone.

What hurts the most is that I don't even know why. He hasn't written or called me once since he left. If he didn't contact anyone else I wouldn't be so confused, just worried out of my mind that something had happened to him. But even though they tried to make up stories and suggest reasons, I could see the guilt in their eyes and I understood they didn't want me to know the real answer, so I stopped asking. I didn't want the carefully worded replies, the little white lies designed to keep me from breaking when I was already too far gone and already knew the truth.

The phone rings. I look up, momentarily startled, before dragging myself to my feet and heading toward it.

"We screen," I murmur to myself. "Zoom in on the answering machine." But there is no camera, and the machine has long since been packed away somewhere, so I pick up the receiver and answer.

"Hello?"

"Not screening calls anymore Mark?" inquires the last voice I ever expected to hear.

I drop the phone. A split second later it's back in my hand and I'm trembling and desperately trying not to sound like a complete idiot.

"R-Roger?" Well, too late for that, but I'm too frozen with fear to breathe, let alone care how weak I sound..

"Yeah. Um, so.. how are you?"

"Oh, just great," I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm in a sudden mood swing. "Thanks for calling, Rog, it's been awhile."

"Okay, so I guess that wasn't the best question to ask.."

"No shit," I answer, trying to remember when I became this bitter. Shouldn't I be crying and begging for him to come back right about now?

"Mark, please.. I think you should come to LA."

I'm silent for a few seconds. "You're not using again are you?" I ask, only half serious. "What the fuck are you talking about? No contact for more than three fucking years and now you expect me to come and _visit_ you?"

I can hear him swear under his breath before he answers. "You don't understand. I'm in the hospital, Mark, and I—I wanna see you. I need to see you."

Shit.. No, that's not funny, it's not fair, I love him and it's not supposed to work like this!

"Roger?" I question softly. "Are you gonna be okay? How—how long did the doctor say you have?"

"I don't know.. a week, a month, ten years? I hate this, I hate not knowing." The response is tired and not angry enough to match the words, and I'm scared because Roger isn't supposed to sound so fragile.

We sit on the ends of the line, and it's not really an awkward silence but I still feel the need to break it.

"What hospital are you at?"

"Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Does that mean you're coming?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. You want me to buy you a plane ticket?"

I take a few seconds to marvel at how he can still make me feel ashamed and insignificant in so few words. I think my meager savings I've put away in my bank account should suffice. "No, I'm okay."

"All right. So.. I'll see you soon then?" He sounds at least half as nervous as I feel.

"Yeah. Bye Roger."
    
    "Bye."

I wait for a click and the sound of the dial tone before I get the courage to hang up. I'm overflowing with mixed emotions; I'm going to see Roger again—It might be the last time. I'm finally going to see him—What will I say? Will he tell me why? Will he still hate me? Should I tell him I love him?

I'm going to see Roger again. I'm ecstatic and scared out of my mind and strangely numb all at the same time. I wonder if I should tell him. This could be my last chance, but what if I ruin everything and I never get to see him again and I don't get to say goodbye? What if, what if, I don't know! I'm so _scared_. I just.. he called, he really called, and I don't know what else to do so I sit down and bury my face in my hands and let myself cry for the first time in months.

So.. how was that? Do I suck majorly at dialogue? If I do, feel free to tell me. And I don't live in California, so I don't even know where the hospital I mentioned is. Close enough, I suppose. Anyway, please review if you could, I'd really appreciate it.


	4. Weak

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Disclaimer: nope, still not mine

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Author's Note: argh! Writer's block is EVIL. It's been forever since I last updated! Sorry, Mark's still in the loft in this chapter. But not for long! I promise, next chapter he'll be in LA. I hope. :-)

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Radio

Chapter 4

It hurts to cry. I guess I'd forgotten how pathetic and small you feel when all you can hear is your own sobs echoing in an empty room. His room. If it wasn't for that distinct Roger-like smell that still lingers here I wouldn't recognize it to be his.. Three and a half years ago I lost him, not to AIDS but to fame and fortune and a life without me. Was I really that bad? I keep going back to what he screamed at me before he left for Santa Fe. "Mark's in love with his work.." But that wasn't true, I was in love with him, he just didn't see it. And of course I hid behind my camera and my fake happiness. If I'm not the filmmaker, the happy outsider who fixes everyone's problems, then who am I?

I don't think it's sunk in yet. I'm going to LA, I'm going to see him, only not really because I'm sure this must just be a dream. It doesn't matter that it seems kind of real, it couldn't possibly be.. and I can't decide if I want to wake up or not. I suppose it might be easy to pretend I don't know it's fake, but what if this turns out to be a nightmare?

The truth is, I think I might be too scared to face this if it's really happening. And I don't care if loving him and being terrified makes me weak. I just.. I want things to be perfect, even though I know they can't be.

The tears have stopped, so I dry my face and on impulse head toward a small box near the door. Ironically, it was the only one I had left to tape shut when Roger called, but seeing its contents had gotten me started thinking and I never finished the job. I pull the cardboard flaps open and stare at the two nearly identical envelopes laying at the top. One left me broken, the other left me torn, and seeing both still fills me with questions that I'm not sure I want the answers to. I take out the first letter, Roger's inadequate goodbye, and stare at the word "love" scrawled just once in the middle of a sentence. I wonder what kind of love could make him hurt me like he did, wonder if any of that love is still there or if it has faded away like my love for him refuses to. Weakness floods my eyes and pours down my cheeks and once again I decorate the page with tears. I'm already breaking down and I haven't even read the other letter yet..

I don't understand why I still love him after all this, why I would still give up anything to have him love me back, or even for things to just go back to how they used to be. Shouldn't I be bitter, like I was over the phone for that strange split second? Shouldn't I have learned to hate him by now?

I remember what it was like right after he left. I kept thinking what if, if only, maybe if I had done this or hadn't done that, then he might have stayed. And we could have gone on living in our happy little dream world of denial and half truths and wordless, useless apologies. Instead of this. Because somehow, despite the angry words and the worthless feeling I got every time I let myself forgive him, it was still better than being alone.

So what now? Yet another question I don't have the answer to. Why does he want to see me now? Because he might be dying? Because the guilt finally got to him? After all this time, does he really think I'll come crawling back to listen to his stupid apologies once again? And what exactly is his excuse going to be this time?

Maybe I don't want to know the answer to that last question, maybe I should stay here and wait for him to call again and tell him I don't want to hear it, that I've moved on, that I don't want to know why he did what he did. Maybe after all this time I might be able to lie without him being able to tell. Maybe I can spend the time between then and now building my walls back up again so that I could say those things to him.

I glance down, the word "love" catching my eye once again. Maybe not.


	5. Brave

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Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.

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Author's Note: I am so incredibly proud of myself for finally finishing this chapter. So if it sucks, please be gentle. :-)

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Radio

Chapter 5

The door in front of me is marked 138. The hall is empty and I am terrified. But I have to do this. Taking a deep breath, I knock lightly on the door and step inside. The room is cold and white and smells like death but it still makes me feel like I'm coming home because Roger is here.

"Roger?" I whisper, staring at the still form on the bed. His eyes flutter open and he starts.

"Mark!" he gasps out. "You—you came."

"Yeah. You weren't expecting me to?"

"I don't know, I was just.. kinda scared you weren't gonna show."

"Oh."

"So, um.. how are you?"

"As well as can be expected. How are you doing?"

"I've been better," he replies. A thought pops into my head, one I've been pushing away for the entire trip here. I know it's a bad idea, but I have to ask him.

"Roger, um, did—did they say how much time you have left?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.

"Didn't you ask me this on the phone?" Is he avoiding the subject? Is he angry? Fuck, five minutes here and I'm already seconds away from panicking...

"Please, I'm sorry, I just—you.. I'm so.." I drift off helplessly and lower my eyes.

He says nothing for a moment, only places a gentle hand on my arm to keep me from trying to continue. "I'm not going to die in this bed, if that's what you're asking."

I stare at him, amazed that he still knows exactly what I mean even when I can't get the words out.

"I'm sorry for... I mean... I'm just sorry, okay?"

I stare at him. He can't even say it? Four simple words: _I'm sorry for leaving_. Or, on a good day, maybe even five: _I'm sorry for leaving **you**_. Is it so hard for him to just acknowledge the fact that he screwed up? That he hurt someone?

"Yeah, that's great Roger. Glad to hear it," I murmur dryly.

His head jerks up automatically at my tone.

"Don't do this, Mark—"

"Do what?"

"Pull away from me! You're putting your walls back up! And you _always_ do this, you always detach. How am I supposed to get through to you if you keep doing this?"

"Why don't you try leaving again? That'll get through to me." He stiffens.

"Mark, I explained—"

"No, you didn't! All I got from that letter was that you were running away again and you weren't coming back. What was I supposed to think?"

"You know I couldn't stay there, Mark. Everything reminded me of her, and I just couldn't stay and deal with that. It was too hard, I was too—"

"What about me?" I cry out, my voice rising. 

"—What?"

"Did you not think that I hurt, too? Did you not notice that every time you pushed me away, I retreated farther back into myself? Did you not think about how it would make me feel? That you were leaving and never coming back and it wasn't important enough or worth the time to tell me to my face? You know me, Roger, you know I'm not the kind of person who could just tell myself it was because you weren't brave enough. It had to be because there was something wrong with _me_. And it killed me! And did you not think about how I was gonna feel when you didn't write or call? I don't understand, Roger, why me? Why could you contact everyone else, but not me? What did I ever do to you?"
    
    "Nothing, you didn't do anything!"

"Then _why_?!"

"Because every letter started out as an apology and turned into a confession. Because every time I called I would hear your voice all alone on the answering machine and hang up and _hate_ myself for it."

"What are you trying to say, Roger?" I ask, refusing to let myself read into his words.

He raises his eyes up and really looks at me for the first time today, and my breath catches because the liquid blue is shimmering with tears and he looks more beautiful than I can stand.

"I'm trying to say a lot of things," he answers softly. "And I need to say them, I should have said them a long time ago, so just—just listen for a minute okay?"

"Okay.."

"You wanna sit down?"

I glance around, my eyes sweeping over the steadily beeping heart monitor, the head of the bed, and the bedside table until I finally spot a small chair tucked into the corner.

"Wait!" he says when I make a move to go get it. "Stay here?"

So I obey him, more than a little confused. He raises the head of the bed until he's sitting up straight, then pulls me by my sleeve until I cautiously sit down on the very edge of the mattress. He keeps pulling insistently until I scoot over and then, after a brief hesitation, he rests a hand on my shoulder and applies soft pressure. I steel myself against the shiver that threatens to run through me and let myself fall back next to him. A gentle hand turns me, just begging me to move closer and so I kick off my shoes and lift my legs up onto the bed and—and he's just sitting there and looking at me with those _eyes_.. I shift slightly, uncomfortable with our closeness but too afraid to move away, because right now I just want to hold him and touch him and let myself realize that yes, he really is right here next to me.

"Mark?"

"Y-yeah?"

"I don't know if I can explain."

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You don't need to, I don't care... "Why not?"

"Because I'm not brave enough. Because I'm too scared, and I just.. I don't know what to say."

__

That's okay, just let me pretend this is real for awhile... "Can you try? Please?" 

He sighs deeply, his warm breath lightly tickling my face. "Okay," he finally whispers. "Can you close your eyes, please?"

I close them, already halfway to panicking.

"Just—just don't hate me, okay?" he begs. I nod, not trusting my voice.

I feel a hand brushing my hair out of my eyes, cupping my face, and then lips, pressing against mine in a soft, chaste kiss. Just when I think I must have died when I wasn't paying attention and gone to some Heaven-like place, he pulls away abruptly. My eyes snap open and I see the terrified look on his face and I want to swear, because he's changed his mind, he didn't mean to, it was an accident, he must hate me—

"You hate me," he says resolutely.
    
    "What?"

"I'm so sorry, Mark, I just—oh, fuck it. You wanna know why? Because I love you and it's not the kind of love it's supposed to be and I couldn't deal with it. I couldn't accept the fact that I was—_attracted_—to a guy, to _you_. For the first few months I was here, I didn't call anyone. And then I called the loft, and it was just.. you, on the answering machine, sounding so goddamn hurt. And I hated myself because I knew I was the one who did that to you. When it came time to leave a message, I froze. I didn't know why at first, until later, when I started thinking about you and—and it was just _there_, and glaringly obvious. And—and don't get me wrong, I've got no problem with people being gay, or bi, or whatever, but.. I'd never thought of myself as anything other than straight. And it scared the shit out of me that one of the words I'd always used to define myself didn't seem to fit anymore.

"It took me forever to realize that it didn't make any difference. Or at least that it shouldn't. But by the time I was okay with myself, I realized that you must hate me for not contacting you. And so of course I didn't know what the hell to do, because I'd already run away and I couldn't run any farther. So I just tried to forget about everything in New York, which is the dumbest idea I've ever had and I don't know why I thought it would work. I never talked about living there with anybody, but I still couldn't forget anything. And I never told anyone how I felt about you. I don't really know why. I could've told Collins, I probably would've been able to, because he's my friend and he would understand and he's not you, so I wouldn't have been so scared. But I never did. And it's been eating me apart from the inside out."

When the soft sounds of his voice fade, I find myself staring at the side of Roger's head. While he was talking, he had slowly turned away from me, as if he couldn't stand to see the look on my face when he told me the truth. As if he expected me to cringe away, to be disgusted, just the same thing I had expected from him.

"Mark?" he whispers, staring at the wall. He sounds terrified.

"Turn around. Please." My voice is choked, raspy, and I swallow thickly as he rolls over, staring at the sheets solemnly.

"Roger."

He raises his eyes, tears slipping out as he blinks. "Yeah?"

"I love you.. so much," I sob.

He lets out a gasp and covers my mouth with his. And we're kissing, desperate and shaking and perfect. I can taste our tears. And I know that I was wrong, before, when he first tried to 'explain' everything to me. Because _this_ is Heaven. And nothing else matters, not my unsent letter, not the past three years, nothing but him.

Like? Hate? Please review!

(It's not quite finished yet.. there should be at least one chapter after this one.)


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